The summer sun had scarcely begun to set when Geralt and the rest of the company awaited the arrival of Lord and Lady Whent. It was a meeting long since coming, from the Witcher's earliest considerations of Harrenhal's curse. A pivotal moment where things could become exponentially easier or infinitely more difficult. In the days since Lady Whent's weirwood experience, he and the others kept themselves busy in various ways. Grand Maester Pycelle aided in hastening Shella's recovery. The weirwood had left her tired, bedridden for two whole days.
It had made the situation within those walls understandably tense, the previous faint murmurs of sorcery quite boldly being spoken of for all to hear. Lord Whent scarcely left his lady wife's side, and Geralt had no doubts the man misliked him for placing her in such a position, despite her stance on the matter. Fortunately, Lady Whent's strength returned, and the Witcher avoided Lord Walter most of the time. There was work to be done outside the walls.
Thanks to Jaime's earlier scouting efforts, Geralt ascertained the rough endpoints of magic across Whent lands, where his medallion no longer shook. During this second planned pass through their territory, the Witcher journeyed to these points, sensing out what magic was present throughout. Sometimes, others even joined him. After so much time spent within Harrenhal and the godswood, he and his companions found it relieving to roam the countryside on horseback. If things went poorly, it was the last chance many or all of them might have of doing so.
Once this final piece of the investigation concluded, there was nothing else left but to schedule a meeting with Lord Whent. A chance to deliver the final report of Harrenhal's situation and a recommendation for what to do next. That last part, he knew, would cause trouble, arguments. It had to be done, however, for the good of everyone inside and around Harrenhal.
Now, I only need to convince the man-in-charge of that, Geralt thought whilst he and the others observed the lord and lady of Harrenhal cross the final distance to the heart tree's clearing. Lady Shella pointedly avoided gazing at it. Instead, she offered Geralt the briefest of reassuring smiles. At least I've a considerable ally or two in doing so.
"My brother is an open-handed man, Geralt," Oswell said the night before, during a final, private meeting of the Hanse to settle all matters amongst themselves first ere doing so with Lord Whent. Thus, the Witcher asked his Kingsguard companion for advice on how to approach the pivotal discussion to come. "Many a time he has aided those in need and asking for little in return. Within or for good reason. You will ask of him to abandon the castle and Harrentown, he will fly into a rage, lose good sense, it is our way," Oswell smiled ruefully. "We must offer him something of worth to avoid trouble, assurances that even if the worst comes to pass, House Whent won't become eternal, doomed exiles from their own bloody castle. And, I think, we've some options for doing so."
Oswell had turned out quite right on that, once all the cards were laid down. Now there was only to see if it would achieve the desired result.
"My lord," Geralt said with utmost formality and bowed. The remainder of his Hanse did the same. "I'm pleased to say our scouting has born results. There is nothing left to doubt over this situation."
"I am satisfied to hear this," Lord Whent answered amicably, kneeling before a small table placed for the meeting. "Show me all that you've learned."
He seems in good spirits, Geralt noted, finding him in a seemingly genial mood. He reached for the map and unfurled it across the table. Both lord and lady leaned forward and began to scrutinize what he'd drawn across it. Hopefully, it doesn't evaporate the instant I get to that.
"To reach the heart of the matter in the simplest terms, I've divided the lands of House Whent into three parts," Geralt explained, running his finger along the edges of the map, separated by newly drawn borders by himself and Jaime. "These lands are of no concern to us. Magic was either weak in them to begin with, or waned in the years since the godswoods cutting."
"The middle portion," His finger drew closer to the castle, between the first magic border and the final, innermost one. "Is where the power of the godswood remains present, even considerable to this day. I would venture to say the fertility of the soil there can be attributed to its presence."
"And the curse?" Lord Walter asked. "The dragon flames?"
"Not present, thankfully. The only place where all three powers exist simultaneously is here," Geralt's voice grew just the barest hint grimmer, his right index finger tapping the center of the map. "Harrenhal and Harrentown. Every single thinking, feeling being residing in either place is at risk. Not only of the curse but the inevitable consequences of our attempts to break it."
"And these consequences are...?"
"A discharge of considerable, uncontrollable power," Geralt spoke plainly, focusing all his attention on Lord Whent. "The demonstration of magic's existence by myself and Arthur? It's nothing in comparison to what will transpire, less than nothing. It will be no mere show of lights, a wind tossing cutlery every which way. Our attempts to liberate your castle, your people, from the throes of Harren's power will be a spark that will burst into a great flame. The likes of which hasn't been seen in this country since the last great dragons perished."
Lord Whent's eyes narrowed and then steadily, imperceptibly grew, the inevitable realization of what Geralt would say next dawning upon him. Shella's mouth drew into a thin line, her hands already moving to her husband's.
"If we're to ensure a successful and bloodless breaking of this curse," Geralt putting as much certainty and severity into his voice as he could. "Then Harrenhal and Harrentown must both be abandoned."
An expectedly uncomfortable, thick silence fell on the forest. Witcher and lord gazed at one another, the former unflinching and the latter stunned. Not even Lady Whent's touch could shake Walter from his surprise. Astonishment inevitably gave way on its own, replaced by a restrained fury. Geralt didn't miss his hands curl tightly around the arms of his chair.
"You would have me forsake my castle...?" Lord Walter said in just above a whisper. "Force my family and people to flee from it? Harrentown as well...?!"
"Walter-"
"No, Shella!" The shout thundered from the deepest recess' of his throat, carrying itself through the trees for what seemed like acres. A fist slammed against the table with such force Geralt heard the wood creak. Lord Whent's nostrils flared with each deep breath. He sharply rose to full height, a wolf ready to pounce. "I am not blind to what forces are at work... I've seen enough proof for a thousand lifetimes, but he asks too much! For a lord to abandon his castle? You, Witcher, have you any notion of what such a course of action would demand of me?"
"The displacement of thousands of people," Geralt said in his most respectful voice. "I'm no ruler of any lands, nor do I own anything that's not on my person or strapped to the saddles of my horse. However, I've seen what wars do to the peasantry, the endless caravans, the refugees fleeing across hundreds of miles. Even planned exodus' such as these are rife with difficulties, large and small aplenty."
"You speak such sense and would enjoin I follow your instructions regardless?"
"Geralt is no fool, brother, as you now admitted," Oswell spoke, taking a step forward and standing immediately to the Witcher's right. As per some advice ere the meeting, the Kingsguard kept his voice level. "Were there any other path, he would not speak of leaving Harrenhal. Yet we know what lingers here, seeping into every blackened stone and crevice. Remaining hereabouts when our task begins is tantamount to cutting everyone's throats ourselves."
"Doing nothing is leaving the noose tied around their necks," Geralt resumed. "The nature of the curse is subtle, easy to mistake for a series of unfortunate events. One's inability to tangibly perceive the threat is its deadliest effect. Even from where I come from, such matters aren't always so easily believed."
"Yet I am to do precisely that?" Lord Walter said, his brow furrowing, accentuating the hard lines across his features. "Tell the smallfolk of my lands to flee from what? Bad luck in farming? The terror of tumbling down stairs? Use the spirit of Harren the Black to explain to my vassals why their liege lord flees from his own walls? They will proclaim me a mad man, one and all!"
"Beg your pardon, my lord," Pycelle stepped forward next, his Maester chains clanking against one another. "But you are not alone in this matter. King Aerys and all of the small council have taken the Harrenhal matter quite seriously. Since our arrival, ravens arrive with great frequency, demanding constant news of our mission's progress. If you require word from Kings Landing to aid in these endeavors, to forestall questions and other such issues, such support you shall have."
Aerys won't stand for a refusal to leave if it's necessary to break the curse either, Geralt silently added, a fact Lord Whent was all too aware, even if anger momentarily blinded him to it. I put the fear of it deep into his already paranoid mind. I wouldn't be surprised if he burned every letter sent from here the instant it got read.
"It gladdens my heart to know this," Lord Walter said with no small amount of scorn. "And tell me, will this support extend to rebuilding efforts for Harrentown? Or perhaps finding my family a new castle, assuming anything at all is left of this one?"
"His Grace is not unreasonable," Arthur answered first, lying quite exceptionally. "Long has he heeded my council, Lord Walter, as well as Ser Barristan's. If House Whent requires assistance, I am certain a letter from myself, delivered by my sworn brother, will yield a fruitful result."
To this, the Lord of Harrenhal said nothing, taking a moment to cool himself lest he should send a glare at the Sword of Morning. Not for the first time, Geralt was impressed by the sheer force of the man's reputation. Though he had never witnessed Ser Barristan sway Aerys in-person, his reputation as the king's rescuer from Duskendale was something they could use to their advantage.
"Harrentown will suffer the worst of it," Geralt said, letting the other's words sink into the lord. "Unlike much of Harrenhal, no weirwoods were used in its construction. Homes, barns, taverns, the discharge will spare none of them. Some parts of the castle will suffer more than others. There's no doubt about that. By and large, however, Harrenhal will weather the storm thanks to Harren's own efforts."
Yet even while those words came out, Geralt knew there was more to say, a simple, unavoidable inquiry that required a frank answer. It was a question every Witcher asked themselves on the eve of a contract. A part of him considered the possibility of aid coming from back home, Ciri and Yennefer arriving in his most dangerous hour in Westeros. It was a potentiality but far too up in the air to truly lessen the danger before them.
"I won't deceive you, my lord, even with all we've learned, all we've prepared, this task won't be easy," Geralt continued following a moment's silence, his voice harsher. "It is without a doubt one of the most deadly curse breakings I've undertaken in my life-long time as a Witcher. If you want me to stand here and promise an absolute victory with no chance of failure, you're going to be disappointed. The odds of us all perishing in this endeavor are high."
Something in Geralt's eyes, voice, or demeanor affected the Whent's. Shella's lips parted in a silent gasp, her aged face losing some of its colors. Lord Walter stared, fear and not anger gracing his features for the first time. The forest around them was still, not even the gentle rustle of leaves or the coursing of the stream interrupting the thick silence.
"Which is why further precautions are necessary," He proceeded after a time. "We've already confirmed the potency of the soil, grass, and trees here when it comes to resisting the curse. We'll need more of it, much more. Firstly, to seal off the Tower of Ghosts so as not to allow our enemy a chance to escape there. If we can't finish it in the main hall, we'll do so in Kingspyre Tower. By leaving a trail of leaves, pebbles, dirt across the shortest pathways leading from the hall to Kingspyre and the godswood, we'll increase our chance of safely traversing the castle. Either in pursuit of the wraiths,... Or to escape from them and fight another day."
"You mean to flee from the battle?" Lady Whent inquired. Geralt shook his head.
"Unless things take a monumentally disastrous turn against us early on, the Kingsguard and I are staying inside, finishing the job no matter what it takes. The Grand Maester and Jaime will leave should I deem it necessary. For this reason, they'll require a trail of godswood pieces left. To get them here safely and out of the castle."
Geralt could vividly imagine Jaime's fist tighten around the pommel of his sword.
"Oswell," Lord Walter said, staring at his brother, resignation and worry in his voice. "This is-"
"What must be done, brother," Oswell cut him off, not unkindly. "Were I a mere knight with no family name or titles, I would choose to stay."
"This is a matter beyond mere oaths and duty, my lord," Arthur spoke, sounding every bit the knight everyone idolized him to be. "There is evil in your home, in the Seven Kingdoms, and it has gone unchallenged for long enough."
"And we're not leaving things up to chance, even if the worst comes to pass," Geralt assured him. "The Grand Maester has learned much from me in the Witcher ways, and more still, I'll impart on him before the curse-breaking commences. If we fail on the first night, the Seven Kingdoms will wield the knowledge to win later."
The lord and lady of Harrenhal fell silent, the setting sun tinging the overhead sky in orange. Lady Shella, already convinced of the situation's severity, required no further convincing. Her husband, whose fingers she entwined slowly with her own, stared past the Witcher, past the Hanse. His fury subsided a while ago, replaced by a grim, focused consideration. The wear of the curse seemed to burden his aged features more than usual. While his resignation visibly grew, so too did Geralt's certainty in the success of their convincing.
"... I will begin making preparations in the morning," Lord Walter eventually spoke, his voice tired but not defeated. "Grand Maester, Ser Arthur, I would ask you send ravens to King's Landing. There will be no shortage of them flying about Harrenhal in the coming days..."
"Of course, my lord," The Grand Maester replied with a bow.
Lord Walter inclined his head to him and the rest of the Hanse. He seemed to linger more on his brother but said nothing. If there was more for the two men to resolve or speak, it was their business. Just as silently, he rose with some effort and turned back towards the depths of the forest. Lady Shella followed after, glancing back at the company.
"Thank you," She said in just above a whisper, or it would have been to anyone besides Geralt. He answered with a smile and watched them leave, their footfalls vanishing into the trees until it appeared they had never visited in the first place. The Witcher silently let out a long, suffering breath, pleased and relieved with the outcome. The sound of footfalls and something tapping against his shoulder revealed a wine bottle, offered by Oswell.
The Kingsguard smiled. "For the nerves."
Geralt accepted without hesitation, taking several long, deep gulps of the Arbor Red they'd brought with them from King's Landing. The sweet taste was like a kiss from Yennefer, mesmerizing and invigorating him in equal measure.
"Thanks... Can't say I'm not looking forward to just training in the coming days. Although-"
"Although nothing," Oswell answered firmly. "Walter will do his part in preparing to leave. I shall learn all I can from it, and ensure the trails of godswood are done well. Mayhaps even learn of a few paths to hasten our retreats or arrivals."
"I shall busy myself with the oils,... When I am not busied with letters," Pycelle smirked, even as a weariness entered his voice. "Herbs comparable to the ones necessary for their creation are within these woods. It should be a small matter for you to ascertain the quality of my work."
That it would. Geralt had enough memories and experiences from his own, earliest attempts at Kaer Morhen to spot from a glance or sniff if the oil was done correctly. Pycelle's experience as a Maester, a healer, would allow him to perform the task without much or any supervision from Geralt himself. The Witcher found himself relieved by the shoulder of bourdens, thankful that his companions were allowing him some respite from the endless handling of the endeavor. It didn't help Geralt had to deal with another, equally tense situation the past night.
He had revealed the final precautions to the rest of the Hanse, his intent to send away Jaime and Pycelle both from the castle should the curse-breaking go completely awry. The Grand Maester looked surprised, even a bit relieved by the possibility. Jaime was anything but.
"I will not leave," The boy said, fists clenched on his knees and a defiant glare directed solely at the Witcher from across the campfire, the shadows shifting across his indignant face. "I refuse."
Not a bad copy of his father's. Too bad he's still a few years too young for it to appear anything more than petulant.
"Jaime-" Arthur smiled amicably, futilely trying to forestall an argument.
"Forgive me, Ser Arthur, but I won't stay silent," The boy's voice cracked just momentarily near the end. "Long have we spoke of this curse, of why we must remove it. I doubted at first this is true, but have I not proven myself regardless? Have I not done all you've asked of me and more?"
"No one could've done it better."
"Then why... Why must I flee...?" Jaime's voice became almost pleading. His white, tightened fingers shook. "How can I leave you all here against such a foe?"
From the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the sworn brothers giving him knowing, sympathetic looks. All three men understood quite well what it was like to be young, impetuous, and stubborn, particularly in the face of anything that could get misconstrued as cowardice. Without a doubt, a young squire leaving the side of the Kingsguard would get seen as such an act.
Words and notions by fools getting young men killed for nothing, Geralt kept his disdain hidden, lest Jaime get the wrong idea.
"I believe there is more to what Geralt intends than we yet know, young Jaime," Pycelle said thoughtfully, running a hand through his beard.
"There is," Geralt said, walking to them. "To the two of you, I have imparted my skills and knowledge to the best of my ability. What a Witcher must know of its prey, how he must fight in the moment, and more."
He placed a hand on their shoulders, glancing meaningfully from squire to scholar. "If I don't make it out of this, you two will be the closest thing Westeros will have to a Witcher."
The words, expectedly, left both of them stunned. Pycelle's gazed at him owlishly, Jaime as though he were mad. Neither, however, argued the point.
"What the crow said to Shella," Oswell said from behind Geralt. "You think it an ill omen...?"
"... When something ends, something else begins," The Witcher said in a low voice, his eyes staring at the visage of the heart tree overlooking the clearing. "The intensifying of magic, the three-eye crow+s promise,... A change is upon these lands. I've felt such shifts in the currents before and based on far lesser evidence. No matter what happens here, Westeros needs a Witcher. Me," He gazed back to his companions. "Or the two of you."
Their silent stares continued a while longer. Pycelle, the first of the two to recovered, bowed his head in silent acceptance and humility at the responsibility. Jaime's defiant anger shrank, the boy looking torn between feeling honored by the responsibility Geralt entrusted to him and knowing what must happen for such a task to befall him.
"Don't worry," Geralt smiled, trying to ease away those dark thoughts running through the boy's head. "I'm not going into this intending to get myself or anyone else here killed. This plan is, as I told Lord Walter, a precaution if the worst comes to pass. If we banish Harren during the initial summoning, this whole affair will conclude in a matter of minutes."
"We've time on our side now," Arthur said. "Our task of inspecting Harrenhal and the surrounding lands is done. Save for writing letters and ensuring the creation of the godswood trails, all we've left to do now is prepare."
"It will take no small amount of time or effort for Walter to leave this place. More than enough for us to continue what we began in the Red Keep," Oswell rested a hand atop his pommel. "I can't be the only one whose sword hand has grown irritable from disuse?"
"Not even close," Geralt replied, smirking and lowering his hands. "We'll be training extensively from tomorrow onwards. To make the most of it, I suggest you all reside here from now on. It wouldn't hurt to gather as much provision as we can either. Once the servants start leaving, we'll have to handle all our cooking."
"I shall abstain from such duties," The Grand Maester smiled ruefully. "I would not wish to inflict such tortures upon you."
The group laughed at the jest. Even the shadow over Jaime passed as he could not help himself. Some of the anger had returned to him at the mention of the plan when Geralt glanced his way. However, he knew much of the sparring that still awaited them would work the frustration out of him.
In the days that came after they met with Lord Walter, a great many things came to pass. From Oswell, Geralt learned the less than enthusiastic reception of the older Whent children to the plan, eerily and amusingly similar to their father's. The younger siblings thought it all most exciting. None of them disobeyed their lord father, however, obediently preparing to leave or aiding in those efforts.
In those first days, Pycelle was kept busy along with Harrenhal's Maester, sending letters to and from the castle, relaying news from King's Landing to Lord Walter and the Hanse. Assurances of aid from the Crown got arranged. They had also heard a bit of news Geralt found immediately troubling.
"Aerys wishes to see the curse-breaking?" He asked the Grand Maester during a sparring break with Jaime and the Kingsguard. The very thought of him choosing to come there was simultaneously infuriating and laughable.
"He has not left the Red Keep in years," Arthur commented, wiping sweat from his brow. "He is afeared to even walk its battlements."
"His Grace, along with the small council, shall observe the curse-breaking from afar, the Red Keep to be precise. They desire to witness the discharge of magic."
"Is such a thing possible?" Jaime asked, giving an understandably puzzled look.
"Given the size of Harrenhal, and the amount of power coursing through it,... Yes, our curse-breaking will likely be visible for miles upon miles in the distance. I'd dare say much of Westeros will bear witness to it, one way or another."
"Forgive me," Pycelle faltered, seeming guilty. "I could not shun mentioning it."
"It's fine. So long as Aerys doesn't try to impose anything unreasonable on us from afar, he can observe away." Geralt sighed. Maybe we'll get lucky, and the excitement or fear of beholding will stop the yawning chasm of where his heart is.
Over time, the clearing around the heart tree more and more resembled a proper camp. The Hanse slept and spent most of their time there, using provisions to prepare meals, drink when thirsty, and rest under the night sky. Mornings and afternoons passed in fierce, tireless sparring sessions, the ringing of steel ever-present throughout the forest. The company spent their evenings telling tales or playing dice. Pycelle had proven himself quite adept at the game, earning Oswell's ire several times over.
While their small piece of land became more comfortable to them, Harrenhal itself was the inverse. During the companies outings through its halls to deliver more letters, converse with Lord Whent, or inspect the godswood trails progress, the castle's emptiness grew eerier. Where once sentries stood, there was naught by barely lit torches. Servants who once walked the hallways had left long ago. It became entirely likely and soon a certainty that one could walk for the entire length of hallways without seeing or hearing another living being, even in the lowest levels of Harrenhal.
Lord Walter knew that scattering the citizens with no rhyme or reason would present long and short-term problems. Thus, he organized expressly where and how many of the smallfolk could go where. He, Shella, and their children would await with a host of men at arms in tents specifically prepared to house tourney guests. They wished to remain close to the castle, to offer swift aid if the Hanse succeeded in their attempt. If they did not, the Whent's would retreat south of God's Eye river. To one of the larger towns situated just under the great lake.
If Dandelion were here, he'd compose a ballad on the Carrions of Harrenhal or some such nonsense. Geralt commented during the earliest days, observing and noticing the constant presence of ravens overhead. They too, after a time, flew no more. The kitchens and barracks fell silent, the hearths no longer burned, silence fell upon Harrenhal. On the final day of the exodus, only a few remained inside its walls.
"I would say not to do anything foolish," Lord Walter said, smiling as he and Oswell embraced in the main courtyard of the castle, their men at arms waiting while the Whent's bid farewell to the company. "But it would be wasted effort... Oswell..."
"Aye, I know, brother," The Kingsguard returned the smile, pulling his older sibling back and seeing him for what may be the last time. "These wraiths will see that it means to earn the ire of a Whent."
"I hope to hear it from you in-person," Shella was the next to embrace him, just a hint of tears in her eyes. "Be safe, and come back to us."
"With this lot at my side, I just may."
The rest of the Whent's did the same for Oswell, the older children doing a better job of keeping their emotions in check. The youngsters were not quite strong enough, their cheeks red and noses sniffing as they bid their uncle farewell. Maris Whent gifted both Oswell and Jaime folded pieces of fabric, embroidered with the symbols of House Whent and House Lannister, respectively. The girl was as quiet as a mouse as she bade them both farewell and avoided Jaime's gaze.
If Geralt hadn't already known Jaime's exact whereabouts in the days since the exodus' beginning, he would have worried far more about the gestures meaning. He and Oswell weren't the only ones to gain a lady's favor.
To Geralt, Arthur, and Pycelle, Lady Whent gifted three more pieces of embroidered cloth. Each intricate and beautifully designed, showing the Maester chains, a great sword positioned before the sun, and a white, red-eyed wolf.
"It does not do for a lady to give her favor to multiple men, but," Shella smiled brightly despite the circumstances. "These are... Strange times."
"It is a... Most beautiful gift, my lady," The Grand Maester complimented after a moment's bewilderment, unused to ever receiving such things.
"Quite so," Ser Arthur smiled and bowed, accepting it more gracefully. "You have my thanks, my lady."
"Mine too," The Witcher did the same as his Kingsguard companion, find no small measure of amusement from this being his first lady's favor as a knight, even if the rest were unaware of either fact.
Once Lady Whent left to her horse, only Walter lingered, halting before Geralt. The Lord of Harrenhal seemed unsure as he and Witcher peered at one another. Theirs was a relationship fraught with Geralt upending many things the lord knew, of the world around him, his own family, bringing him one ill omen after another.
It was then, to the Witcher's surprise, that Lord Walter extended a hand to him. "May the Gods watch over you all in the night to come, Witcher, and may your swords strike true."
Geralt shook it. "And may we all celebrate to the success come tomorrow."
"Aye," He laughed, his eyes performing a final sweep of the castle looming over them. "Aye, that would be good..."
In silence, the Hanse watched the last of those who called Harrenhal home vanished into the shadows of the mountainous gatehouse. The figures, banners, and eventually even tramplings of their horses faded into the distance, into nothingness. The morning sun still shined down upon them, accompanied by a warm, comfortable wind. The Witcher was not disturbed to remain in such a place. As he surveyed his companion, it was a gladdening sight to see them prepared as well.
"Let's get inside," Geralt announced, turning towards the flung open main gates, the maw of the great, slumbering beast about to awaken. "We've got work to do."
A/N: I'm not usually one to tell people to play music during my fics, but I'll be very disappointed if you guys don't have Anvil of Crom or some such blaring when chapter 23 rolls around